The village was silent. All were asleep. All except Yossi. Bathed in yellow moonlight, he lay wide-eyed on his bed, remembering. The fear on the faces of his neighbors … the pages of the prayer books curling, smoldering … the grim determination in the Rebbe’s eyes … the strange sideways glances of the soldiers … Yossi wondered about that. The soldiers were ten times stronger than the villagers — no, a hundred times — yet they’d been uneasy. They’d refused to look the Rebbe in the face, and they’d made that funny hand sign, to ward off the devil. They’d seemed to shrink back from the burning books which they themselves had thrown onto the fire. It didn’t make sense, unless … Yossi sat upright. Unless they were afraid! But afraid of what? The Jews? The Rebbe? The funny Hebrew writing and the strange-sounding prayers? Ridiculous. The soldiers knew how weak and defenseless the Jews were. That was why they bullied them all the time. And yet, Yossi was sure, they feared something.
